


H3LL/FYR3

by Darker_Side



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Brief M/M, Cyberpunk, Emotional Turmoil, F/M, Future Fic, Grunge, Heavy Angst, Lucifer Needs a Hug, Maze is a good bro, Mild F/F, Self-Destructive Behavior, Sex workers, cathartic sex, complicated devil emotions, cybernetic deepthroat, fuck the pain away, substance use and abuse, wonderful world of cybernetics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27672554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darker_Side/pseuds/Darker_Side
Summary: The night was like any other night for him: loud, bass-boosted music reverberated through the air, almost visible with the amount of thick neon light bathing the room and all its inhabitants. In the heart of Indigo City, Lucifer sat in his typical booth, watching as his patrons danced, drank, snorted, shot-up, and fucked on any available surface. He took a drag on his cigarette while his other hand idly twirled a lock of dark hair, the owner of said hair’s head sliding down until it rested in his lap. Maze’s eyes flicked up towards his from beneath a pale woman with green hair and an ass that stretched the limits of her shimmering latex pants.H3LL/FYR3 was no Lux, but that was the point. So was moving across the country to the grungy streets of New York.
Relationships: Lucifer Morningstar/OC lookalike
Comments: 40
Kudos: 39





	H3LL/FYR3

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the future, where the world is washed with neon and everything hurts. This is the cyberpunk future fic that no one asked for, but, alas, here it is. 
> 
> For reference, the year is 2090. In my future, sex work is even more common and less taboo; and let’s just say cybernetics make it really fun. There’s some language and themes that might seem indifferent to sex work, but that is just Lucifer’s jaded, traumatized point of view. 
> 
> I won’t lie, the entire fic hurts, but I think exploring the world in which Chloe is no longer around is a horrible reality for Lucifer. I hope you enjoy this; I had a lot of fun coming up with the idea (which is not original, thanks to all of the Cyberpunk 2077 publicity!). 
> 
> **HUGE Shoutout** to my dear friend [Luni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_Luniana_x) for the _GORGEOUS_ images she created for this fic! I told her my vision and she made it a reality! Ich hab' dich lieb!
> 
> What a night at H3LL/FYR3 might sound like: [Sinners II - A Darksynth Cyberpunk Darkelectro mix](https://youtu.be/V5eumiGcKGA)
> 
> Lucifer's outfit inspiration [here](https://images.app.goo.gl/7zPm7ULFrHjksbBs9)

* * *

[Hollywood Undead feat. Tech N9ne - IDOL](https://youtu.be/H0jhnRxaiIs)

The night was like any other night for him: loud, bass-boosted music reverberated through the air, almost visible with the amount of thick neon light bathing the room and all its inhabitants. In the heart of Indigo City, Lucifer sat in his typical booth, watching as his patrons danced, drank, snorted, shot-up, and fucked on any available surface. He took a drag on his cigarette while his other hand idly twirled a lock of dark hair, the owner of said hair’s head sliding down until it rested in his lap. Maze’s eyes flicked up towards his from beneath a pale woman with green hair and an ass that stretched the limits of her shimmering latex pants. 

He could see the red, circular glow from his eyes reflecting off her brown, and it fit her, he thought. With the age of everything glowing and neon, he could have his own eyes burn like embers and say it was a modification. It added to the look, to his look, and usually attracted the sort of crowd he wanted. Maze winked at him before returning to tongue-fucking the girl's tonsils, and Lucifer paid them no mind as he continued to toy with her hair, occasionally tugging as the two writhed next to him. 

H3LL/FYR3 was no Lux, but that was the point. So was moving across the country to the grungy streets of New York. 

A gasping moan grabbed his attention, and he looked down again to see the green-haired girl’s mouth wide open, close to his shoulder, with Maze’s hand down the back of those impossibly tight pants, clearly doing some work. One corner of Lucifer’s mouth quirked up; he loved seeing people so unhindered in their carnal wants. One of the good things about nearing the end of the 21st century: everything was about sex, drugs, money, and technology. He could have lived without the latter, but there were times it came in handy. 

He wasn’t afforded the front-row show for very long because something else caught his eye. The something, a man who couldn’t be older than twenty, eyes fixed on Lucifer’s booth as he strolled by, wearing a white button-up two sizes too small on his lithe build and slacks that hugged his legs, his ass. The white shirt shone a radiant bluish-purple under the blacklights, and his one real eye twinkled in contrast to the black sclera and pink iris of his cybernetic one. He had black hair, a jawline lightly dusted with stubble, and a mouth that looked like it needed something in it. 

Lucifer could see the hint of a pink tongue dart out and trace a full lower lip before turning away and walking towards the hallway that led to the restrooms. 

It was as close to an invitation as Lucifer cared to accept. He looked down as his lap, Maze’s head still nestled there, and he maneuvered his hand away from the other woman’s face so he could gently pat the demon on the cheek. “Sorry, darling,” he chimed, looking down at the demon’s bothered expression. “Time for me to get my own entertainment for the evening.” Maze arched a brow at him, but allowed him to lift her head and lower it down to the seat before he stood. 

He grabbed his nearly empty glass on the table and drained it before haphazardly straightening his own clothes, the long jacket worn by men of esteem in that time swayed below his hips as he turned. He caught himself before he could leave, deciding to bend down and whisper close in Maze’s ear. “Come find me if you two want something hard to sit on later.” He left with a swift kiss to her cheek, off to find the boy that had caught his eye. 

The hall to the restrooms was far from private, and as Lucifer wound his way through the crowd of busy, hot bodies, all in various forms of undress, he found the boy waiting down at the far end, where the neon lights weren’t as bright. The boy opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to introduce himself, but Lucifer swallowed the words down with his tongue, one hand wrapping around the back of the other man’s neck, the other grasping his hip possessively. 

Lucifer had always had a preference with women, although men had never been off the table for him. In the future, after  _ her _ , he found himself drifting towards men more than not. Maybe it was that they felt different under his hands, it didn’t feel as much betraying as it was with a woman. Perhaps it made it easier to not see her face in that of a man’s, her curves in the straight proportions of men. The cock was another obvious difference. It kept his mind from straying to painful memories, ones that always left him reeling, angry and agitated for days on end. 

The boy tasted like flavored vapor and booze, his mouth hot and wet, the stubble on his chin scraping against his own, and there was no mistaking him for a feminine memory. Lucifer groaned into the kiss, pressing his body into the smaller one, seeking his pleasure, the boy’s a mere afterthought. Lucifer bit down his chin, his jaw, latched onto his neck and rolled his hips up. He could feel the other’s cock hard against his thigh, his own cock was desperately trying to fill, needing something more. 

It was a newer problem, formed about a decade prior, the start of his personal apocalypse. He always managed to get it up, somehow, even if he had to close his eyes and think of tanned skin, pillowy lips, and eyes brighter than any Heaven could hope to be. 

If the kid noticed Lucifer’s lack of hardness, he didn’t seem to care. He took whatever Lucifer dished out, moaning and sighing into the rut he had started. Lucifer was just beginning to think he could hump his way to hardness, mouth against a thundering pulse when the door to the undesignated restroom swung open and a woman with long blonde hair walked out. 

He stopped what he was doing, keeping his weight pinned against the boy’s as he took her in. The proportions were right, the hair length was right, and something glimmering on the brief glimpse of her face was enough to change his direction for the night. 

He pushed himself away from the other body, ignoring the small whine of protest. He was on a mission; one that involved a high dose of emotional pain. The only sex that provided any sort of satisfaction; the kind that left him a shell, numb, able to go about his endless days in relative agony rather than total anguish. 

“Hey, what the fuck?” the boy called after him, frustrated by the abrupt stop to what would have been a decent enough orgasm.

“Grab yourself one of the lot on the clock,” Lucifer shouted over his shoulder, making sure to keep the woman in his sights. “Tell them Lucifer sent you. Give them the code  _ Goat _ and you’ll get one on the house.” The boy grumbled but Lucifer didn’t listen. Didn’t care. If the kid didn’t take him up on his offer, he’d just have to get himself off. 

He caught up to the woman, noticing she was more cybernetically altered than organic. Including her face. She had the holographic face plates, made to look like skin, and it had been a while since he had sought those services. 

He was feeling more self-destructive that night. Concentrated alcohol and a lethal cocktail of the latest designer uppers and downers tended to do that to him.

Lucifer grabbed her arm gently, and she spun around to see who had interrupted her journey back to wherever she had been going. He could see she didn’t work for him, and that only made his decision that much clearer.

People who worked for him didn’t need to see what he was about to do. Didn’t need to see the state it left him in.

“You,” he addressed, indifferent and callous. The woman looked down at his hand wrapped around her arm before looking up at who had grabbed her. The expression on her multi-faceted face turned from outrage to pleased in the blink of an eye. He wasn’t sure how much of that was mechanical or muscular. “You’re Augmented, yes?”

Her smile broadened. He didn’t need to ask, necessarily, he knew the answer before that sinful grin spread across her lips. All the sex workers had a certain  _ look _ to them. They were as common as drunks in the club scenes and neon districts of the city. The Augmented referred to those that had multiple cybernetic enhancements to offer more customizable services to their clients. 

The customization was what he was going for. 

“Good,” he remarked, taking her smile for just as much an offer as an answer. He gently pulled her in his direction, aiming to take her to one of the private rooms in his club. She stopped him with a hand in the center of his chest, looking up at him with coyly apologetic eyes, which he was surprised to see were real, except for the small chip located in one pupil, but everyone had one of those.

“Can you give me an hour?” she asked, batting her elongated eyelashes sweetly. “I have someone else waiting.” She pointed a thumb behind her to where a man and a woman, a couple, was sitting in a booth, three drinks on the table before them. 

“I’ll give you triple of what they’re giving you.” It sounded desperate, but that was because it was. He had been given the option to have something only the future offered. He couldn’t go back to the boy he left against the wall. Not with any hopes of getting hard, or wanting anything other than a weak attempt at feeling something. 

The woman’s eyes widened, eyebrows lifting, and she eyed him up and down before nodding her head and letting him lead them through the sea of others looking to drown their sorrows with easily found solace in substance or body the time period offered. Lucifer wouldn’t say 2090 was his favorite era, not when favoritism for time landed within memories of people long gone, but the devil in him could appreciate what the decade allowed its souls. 

He held her wrist as he stalked to the most basic room H3LL/FYR3 had. He wasn’t looking to impress the woman with riches and class. He wanted what she could provide. The setting should fit the mood, after all, and he was feeling far from classy. Far from humanity. 

The woman looked at him quizzically as he punched-in the number code and pulled her through the door without hesitation. “You already bought the room? Were you so sure I’d come?”

“It’s my club,” he responded, barely holding back the exacerbated sigh flowing from his chest. “I know the codes.” He held his hands out by his sides in a half-ass flourish, adding a small bow for further dramatic effect. 

“ _ You’re _ Lucifer Morningstar?” Her eyes trailed down his frame and back up, further assessing the being in front of her. It didn’t even bother him, the judging look of disappointment. He wasn’t as kempt as he usually was, not nearly as coiffed. It had been a rough week. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept. She seemed to notice he was aware of her scrutiny, so she followed up with a save. “I just… You’re much younger than I thought.” 

He arched a brow, lowering his gaze to the floor in agreement as he peeled out of his coat. He grabbed the smokes and lighter out of the pocket before tossing the garment across the bench in front of the single bed. 

“Oh! Were you part of that Immortality Project in ‘75?” He could hear the excitement in her voice. It was still jarring to hear ‘75 referring to 2075 and not a century before that. He’d been on Earth for far longer than he ever had millennia ago. 

“More like born into it,” he grumbled, but the woman didn’t seem to understand, she simply hummed in acknowledgment. The Immortality Project had erected once scientists had figured out the cryogenic freezing process. Those wealthy enough were able to immortalize themselves in icy coffins to be thawed in the future, at a date of their choosing, to wake up to a  _ brand new world _ . 

Hearing the name always made his blood boil. All the people he tried to convince to do it. All the people he cared for dearly, all had declined. His eyes stung at the memory, of being told they didn’t want to live forever. It had felt like a stab, an abandonment. Deep down, he understood. They wanted to be with their loved ones in a place he could never reach, a place they all deserved with every fiber of their being. 

He couldn’t fault them for it, but the bitter taste in his mouth of having the opportunity to keep them with him for eternity, with brief periods of separation, right at his fingertips… it hurt. The day he lost her was the day he cursed those scientists, for giving him hope. 

He pulled a deep, shaky breath through his nose as he slipped out of his boots, shoving them to the side with his foot. The woman was watching him, just taking him in: his shaggy hair, his scruffy beard, the overall mess he probably looked. He knew he smelled of liquor and smoke, but so did everyone, his was just more pungent and stale. 

“Your face,” he started, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, a plume of smoke following his words. “Holographic facial projection, right?” Straight to business. He didn’t need the small-talk, the idle chatter that might bring up more painful memories. 

“Absolutely,” she replied with a smile, beginning to work on taking the skimpy dress off. He watched as she did so, noticing the few biomechanical enhancements to her exterior. No nipples where he expected to see them, although her breasts looked full and flesh enough. It was one of the stranger trends of the time, the lack of nipple, but he figured it made the person look less  _ person _ and more the popular  _ synth.  _

“What else?” he asked impassively, turning his head to the side as he studied her. The UV tattoo she had on her thigh was interesting. It was made to look like the wired pathways of a motherboard, glowing in fluorescent orange. He wondered if it had any function, like the ones that most wore on their wrist that held their credits and identification. 

The woman placed her hands on her hips, posing herself in a flattering display as she listed off her alterations. “Rib removal, so I can be bent in half.” Lucifer stored that information away, just in case. “Biomechanical anal lubrication, hyperextension capabilities in my jaw, teeth retraction, canine elongation capability, and a fortified pelvis.” 

The last enhancement caught his attention. “Good,” he stated, taking a drag from his cigarette before sitting down on the bench. The woman walked towards him and fell to her knees between his legs, hands on her thighs, waiting for instruction. “I want you to wear a face.” She nodded as he reached for his coat and searched for the pocket with the closest thing to treasure he had. She noticed he was looking for something and started to shake her head, which he ignored. 

“Just let me access your memories and I can get a good read on the face you want,” she offered, reaching up to grasp his face in her hands and look into his eyes. To read the recording chip that wasn’t nestled into his pupil.

“I don’t have one of those,” he responded coolly, pulling free from her caress, continuing to reach into one of the inside pockets of his jacket and pulling out an old, well-worn photograph. 

“Oooh, vintage,” the woman cooed, and Lucifer couldn’t even fake a smile if he had wanted to. The picture looked vintage enough: yellowed and wrinkled from the time his anger and frustration took the better of him and he had crumpled it up in a shaking fist. He had tried to flatten it out, with tears in his eyes, but in the end the wrinkles created cracks in the had-been perfect image. The sick irony was that it mimicked his heart, his mind, anything he ever thought he felt and knew how to feel was cracked forever anyway. 

He let the woman take a good look at the picture. Let her analyze the coloring, the bone structure. She couldn’t change the color of her eyes, but if everything else mirrored the photo, he could use his substance-ladened imagination to paste blue over the natural green. 

When the woman had downloaded the image, she nodded her head, watching as he took care to place it back into his coat pocket, where it was safe. “She’s beautiful,” the woman observed, a small smile on her lips, like she knew what he was about to say.

“She was,” he said anyway, wishing he could mirror that sad smile back to her. He didn’t try to treat the people he was with poorly, he just found that his ability to give a shit had floated upward a decade ago. 

The woman, he still didn’t have a name, not that it mattered, he’d be using a different one anyway, placed her hands on his thighs, sliding upward. He felt his hips rise at the touch, at the anticipation of it, and immediately recalled when he saw her face begin to shift, the glitchy feedback showing tanned skin and defined cheekbones. He grabbed her wrists, trying to be gentle, trying to stop her in time. 

“No, not yet,” he ordered, eyes wide, frantic. The face he wanted had to come later, after things had started, or he would never go through with it. “Wait until after you start. Distract me first.” It was a plea that came across as an instruction, and the woman replied with a soft  _ of course _ before going for his belt. 

[Ghostemane - Nihil (SWARM remix)](https://youtu.be/nffD4D-rva8)

Lucifer leaned back, propping his elbows up on the bed behind him, letting his head fall between his shoulders, not looking, staying safe, as his cock was pulled out and a thick, wet stripe was licked up the length. With a sigh, he pulled the remaining drag on his cigarette, extinguishing the glowing cherry between his fingers before tossing the butt. He exhaled the lungfuls of smoke as warmth encased the head of cock, as a hyperextendable jaw took his girth with professional ease. 

When he pulled his head back up, his chest clenched at the sight. She was there, the face he wanted to see, looking back up at him with the wrong colored eyes, but he could play that off as improper lighting. There was always a rush of emotions, physiological responses, to that face. The barrage always hit him the same: he’d feel all the things he felt when he lost her, all the pain and sadness. The joy, the utter enchantment she used to make him feel would flood in next, almost enough to make him forget. The anger and misplaced betrayal would follow, and those always stayed with him the longest. 

He had emotional baggage before Chloe.  _ After _ Chloe left him a crowded warehouse of unwanted luggage, each with their own label, each stuffed full, each left to rot, forgotten and disowned. 

“You like that, baby?” she asked him, pulling him from the runaway train of this thoughts. The voice was wrong, the pitch wasn’t quite right, but the tone fit to his memory. It would do. He nodded in response, licking his lips, keeping his eyes glued to the face he longed for, to the lips he remembered tasting stretched around his cock. 

He wasn’t fully hard yet, but he was close to it, and the woman wasn’t bothered by it, wasn’t offended. She treated him like any good paying customer: without expectation. Something he could appreciate at a different time. 

“You’re huge cock feels so good in my mouth,” she moaned, sliding Chloe’s lips up and down the side of the shaft, now fully erect. Hearing the words come out of that face made his mind snap out of the wallow he had dug himself into. He throbbed against the woman’s tongue, and it was time to take what he needed. 

His terribly misguided self-help. 

Self-destructive therapy. 

“Yeah? You miss that cock?” he asked, one hand reaching out and burying itself into golden tresses, just barely the wrong shade. The woman took it in stride, moaning and nodding, a true fucking professional, and Lucifer would have to remember to tip her extra, on top of the triple payment. 

“Such a nice cock, baby,” the gasped, dragging head of his dick across her lips so he felt the words puff against the wet skin. It made him flinch, not the sensation, but the word. It was wrong. 

She didn’t call him that.

“No, just,” he stammered, shaking his head and clenching his fists. The woman waited for him to gather his thoughts, as jumbled and painful as they were. “Lucifer,” he finally muttered, flexing his hips to get her to suck his dick, to get the sensation back, to make his mind stop. “Just Lucifer.” 

He groaned as his cock slid down her throat, one that was easily able to take it, one that didn’t gag or choke around the intrusion. He missed it, hearing the choking noises of someone so desperate to swallow it hole, comfort thrown to the wind, but he couldn’t deny the uninterrupted pleasure that came from the easy slide. He could get lost in it, let the woman suck him off, pull the turmoil out, but the restlessness that came from self-medicating would keep him awake. Unable to lull off into unsatisfying sleep, just to not  _ feel _ anything for a few hours. 

Selfishness won that pitiful argument. He needed to feed someone his anger, his pain, and even through all the years, all the sessions with Linda, he still hadn’t learned any other way to find release other than the one he got from sex. 

But Linda had gone with the Silver City life, even though Charlie was able to come and go as he pleased. 

He hadn’t seen Charlie for a long while, and he wondered if Nephilim had given up on him as well. Had found checking-in with his destructive uncle to be a waste of his celestial time. 

Lucifer hissed through his teeth, reaching a hand down and grasping the back of the woman’s carbon fiber skull, pushing her down his length, relishing in the squeeze of her throat, before yanking her off with more force than necessary. “Get on the bed,” he ordered, voice quiet but commanding, and the woman gasped, lips and chin wet, and hurried to comply. 

He stood, turning around to face the bed as he started to strip, the woman making herself comfortable on top of the haphazardly-made sheets. She gyrated her hips was she watched him, arms stretched overhead, back arched, exposing all of the wonderful perks of her company for an hour. He could feel his erection deflating, so he stroked it a few times before unbuttoning his pants. It wasn’t her fault, far from it, the problem was purely his. A harsh reality that he once had a heart, had a single-bodied desire that was no longer a possibility for himself. Ever.

A hard pill to swallow for an immortal. One he choked down every moment he continued to barely exist.

Chloe’s face looked up at him from the wrong body, prone and waiting. There was the occasional glitch from looping the data, and he would catch a small glimpse of the actual person he was with. It was sobering, no less anticipatory. He stroked his cock again, for good measure, and crawled up the bed to rest between warm thighs, and he could feel himself slipping into the role, into the space he went when he created for himself where eons of ignoring morality and rule comforted him to take what was his.

Hands wrapped around his back, soothing overheated skin, and his groin pressed against wet heat. He closed his eyes and rolled his hips into the heat, spreading slick fluid around as he lowered himself down over the woman, pressing his weight on her. She groaned, pleased, and that helped him ignore the foreign feeling associated with a body that wasn't hers. He pressed hard, grinding, enough for him to feel the slight tinges of discomfort. It was what he was looking for: the knife-edge of _too much_ to match his aching soul. The fortified pelvis of his temporary, therapeutic relief enabled him to get it. He knew then that it would be a modification he would continue to seek out. No way he could go back after it, given the ability to rut as hard as he wished, push the boundaries of humane with the safety of not doing permanent damage. 

A Fixer, a disavowed doctor of all cybernetics, crowding the busy, grungy streets, could be easily found. Lucifer knew of, at least, two. 

It would make sense for him to want it kind and gentle. For him to have the painful moments of getting an Augmented to wear her face so he could slide into her softly, pretend to feel the things he used to feel with another body. He didn’t, though. As fucked up as he knew it was, he used the time to take what he wanted. To do what he had been forced to master. To punish. For all that he loved her, there was a rotten core deep inside that love, that affection, that  _ loathed _ her passing. Something that flared with anger at the idea she made the  _ choice _ to leave him behind. It was for good reason. He would never ask her to be somewhere her child couldn’t be… but that meant she had to leave him.  _ Did _ leave him. The cavernous, black hole where his heart and soul used to reside was filled with a bitter wrath that made him sick. He hated himself for it, but he was the one who had to exist alone. He was the one that suffered in the end.

Not that he would have it any other way. 

Something sweeter made it hurt more. He only had that with her, and he’d be damned a second time before he ever gave that up. 

He wrapped his left arm under her body, hand grasping the back of her neck while his other hand held her jaw, tight and firm. Chloe’s lips were licked by a tongue that wasn’t hers, her cheeks still tan and not pink, a heartbreaking reminder that it wasn’t actually real. Her face didn’t have blood under it. It was a projection onto another half-flesh and blood face, with features that would flush but wouldn’t look the way he needed them to.

As Lucifer entered the surrogate for his anguish, he stared at her face, Chloe’s face, and it was close enough to what she looked like, ravaged and taken, for the feral nature of the game to take over. His eyes burned brighter, and a growl rumbled in his chest. It wasn’t relief, that he felt, but it was similar. Cathartic. A poetic closeness to what it had been like looking down into oceanic blue and sliding home. The eyes were wrong, no deep sea to drown himself in, but it was  _ almost. _

As close to blissfully drowning as he could ever hope to get. 

He went quiet, no words to spill, no noises to make yet, but his ears picked up the sounds of a woman panting, moaning, pleading. He grunted in frustration, hips picking up a punishing pace, nearly brutal strength behind them, but the noises didn’t stop. The moans, gasps, begging in a voice that was all wrong… 

The urge to flip her over was strong, to muffle the sounds in the thin pillows and take what he wanted. What he was paying for, but that would defeat the purpose. He didn’t get to run from the face he superimposed onto strangers. That was a luxury he couldn’t force himself to have. If he was selfish enough to use another’s body to see a small piece of what used to be, he would have to be brave enough to look at it. To see what he’d allowed himself to do. 

The compromise was to quiet the woman beneath him, to hush the sounds and revel in the sensations, watch the face he missed so much in peace, with only his harsh breathing and thumping bass from the club as a soundtrack. He shifted the hand around her jaw up, to cover her open mouth, and the wrong colored eyes rolled back, and it was perfect again. The visual was there, no auditory illusion that it wasn’t reality. 

He fucked her, the woman wearing Chloe’s face, with primal abandon. Care was gone, gentleness was long lost, and Chloe’s projected face looked more than happy about what he was doing. The glow from his eyes, red and angry, obscured the green in the other’s eyes that didn’t belong there, and he could feel himself start to give-way to the pleasure of it. The tortuous pain that came with that pleasure never stopped him. 

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against the woman’s, breath warm on his own hand, and he got his knees under her thighs, giving himself more leverage. He used it, adding his more than humanly strength into every thrust. Putting the technology of the future to work. He played a symphonic memory in his head, of the noises he expected and wanted to hear. What he’d happily  _ bleed _ to hear again. 

Lucifer knew he was saying something, hoping it was more neutral than the desperate prayer in his head. He never knew if she heard him, if that hell was only afforded to angels and the like. He had never asked the question when he had the time to, had been too scared of the answer to ask much later, when it was too late. It haunted him on nights he hoped she couldn’t hear him and was a comforting quiet on nights he wished she could. 

That time, buried to the hilt in a professional, was a time he hoped, literally prayed, she couldn’t. Even later, when he held sermon in his mind for her, hands folded together before his lips, he talked to her as a private congregation, meant only for himself to hear. 

His hips stuttered at the thought, his mind trying to claw his body away from the thing that felt so right and wrong simultaneously. He wouldn’t allow it. Couldn’t. 

If he couldn’t have that… what else did he have?

He kept his hand on her mouth, moved the other one to post himself up on her chest. It was a lot of weight, a lot of pressure, but he could feel the lack of bone beneath his hand, a strong, carbon fiber alloy beneath skin. The bruise couldn’t go bone deep, and by the expression on the woman’s borrowed face, she couldn’t care less. 

“I hate that I have to do this,” he told her, thankful for taking her ability to answer away. He didn’t need the judgement, the flash of confusion that would undoubtedly show on her mouth. The headboard on the bed was pounding the wall, and he only held back enough to keep it from breaking through, exposing his private sin to the neighbors committing their own in the next room. “I  _ hate _ that I can’t do anything about it.” A confession of the highest accord. Tears stung his eyes, threatening to fall, but he turned his face to the side, held them back, forcing them to clump-up his lashes. 

The rage was taking over him, and he was so thankful for it. So grateful that the worst side of himself could take over, the beast out of the cage, standing in front of the broken angel as the monstrous protector living inside of himself, his own body. He couldn’t let it out, not fully, but he held on with a leash, keeping his wrecked, humanly appearance intact. His eyes betrayed him, and that was okay, those could be written off as enhancements, modifications for the sake of vanity and thrill. 

He moved his hand from her chest to her throat, squeezing, and that felt human enough. A thundering pulse beneath his palm. Even that felt wrong. He had come to learn Chloe’s heartbeat that way, recognized the timing, felt any sort of flutter or misfire. The heartbeat he felt was wrong, but if he squeezed hard enough, his own would cover it up. And it did. Her breath was hot and forceful against his hand, but she was still breathing, still consenting, and that was all that mattered. 

Tight walls clamped down around his length, her groan couldn’t be silenced as it roared in her chest, echoing in her covered mouth. Legs tightened around his waist, and it was enough permission to allow himself to fuck into that body relentlessly. The wall behind the bed dented, threatening to cave in, but he came with a choked-out sob, refusing himself the satisfaction of making a sound with the release.

That was meant all for her, as well. Only allowing himself to make them when he was alone with his torment. 

He took his hand off the image of Chloe’s mouth, focusing on lips that moved, spewing off a litany of praises and pleasantries. She could do it then, after he found release. It wouldn’t fend off his erection, she was allowed to stab him in the chest with that wrong voice, now that it was over.

“ _ Holy fucking shit _ ,” she gasped, and he cringed, keeping himself propped up on his hands, fists buried in the pillow beneath her head. There was nothing holy about what he had done. That holiness was gone, lost to him for eternity. “I think I’ll need to see a Fixer after that.” She chuckled breathlessly, crossing her arms above her head, teeth digging into the meat of her bicep. That move was too remembered, so heartbreakingly familiar. He had to extract himself from between the woman’s legs to avoid looking at her like that, plush lips around bared teeth, digging into skin to help bring down the floating sensation. “You’re fucking amazing.” He heard her breathe that out as he got off the bed, legs shaking from the exertion, both physical and mental, standing by the edge of the bed, head turned.

Not even letting himself come down properly, he grabbed the woman’s wrist, accessing her accounts and transferred 5,000 credits. He could see her eyes wide, part of her wanting to protest, the other part, the professional side, kept her mouth shut. “You earned it,” he panted, giving the slender joint a squeeze before releasing it. He moved back to the bench in front of the bed, sitting down and taking another cigarette. He was blowing clouds of smoke as the woman slid herself from the bed and dressed, not looking at him, fearing he might change his mind on the payment. 

She left without another word, and as soon as he heard the door click shut, he exhaled a shaky breath, body vibrating with the effort to keep it together, to keep the salty tears threatening to fall at bay. He crushed the cigarette between his fingers, cursing as he lit a new one with the embers of the broken one. Her hurt everywhere, a psychosomatic response to the pain he felt in his chest, the loathing in his head. 

The aftermath was always hard. When the cold, bone-deep reality of what he’d done was able to sink in and chill his seething blood. The earthshattering guilt.

He hated himself. For being so weak, for needing so much physically that the idea of disappointing her, dishonoring her, was not at the forefront of his mind. He had managed a few years without it. Without the unsatisfying comfort of embrace, but his true nature won-out in the end. 

Cigarette poised between trembling lips, he rummaged through the pockets of his coat, searching for the baggie with his cocktail of downers. A mix of Xanax, Klonopin, and any other benzodiazepine he could buy, all crushed and ready to be snorted. His celestial biology made it impossible to take anything straight into his bloodstream, and that left only ingestion or inhaling. He had found, throughout the years, that copious amounts of crushed pills could get it done. Leave him numb and artificially relaxed. They didn’t stop the pain, the hurt, but they kept his mind occupied, which was the true villain in his tragedy. 

He dumped the contents of the bag onto the back of his hand, pulling the smoke from his lips to sharply inhale the powdery concoction, nose tingling and mind burning. Wiping the residue from under his nose, in his facial hair, he resumed his position, pulling a drag from the cigarette after sniffing hard, knees bouncing as he waited for the cold wash of nothing to take over.

\---

Maze wandered the hall with all the rooms, listening to a cacophony of moans and cries, relishing in all the sin she knew to be happening behind closed, and opened, doors. She had seen Lucifer take a woman down the hall, even with her mouth attached to her own conquest’s neck, but she couldn’t hear anything hinting to what room he was in. She was almost to the end when her eyes landed on a woman, the place where a heart should be clenching, an imitation of it stopping, and, weakly, her eyes burned. 

She had no breath. She already knew what had happened. What he had done. Maze rushed over to the woman and grabbed her arm harshly, pushing her against the wall. The woman grunted in shock and opened her mouth to speak, but Maze beat her to it. She didn’t care what she had to say.

“Take that face off!” she demanded, words quiet but harsh, her grip on the woman’s arm tightened, enough to make the other wince. “It doesn’t belong to you.” Maze watched Chloe’s confused expression digitally dissolve into a stranger’s face. She released the woman then, shoving her towards the mouth of the hall and out of her sight. The demon’s attention moved towards the door the woman had come out of, and she approached it slowly, unsure of what could be on the inside, whether it be heartbreak or cold anger. 

She opened the door carefully, calculated, and only stepped in once she could see Lucifer sitting on the bench, elbows on his knees, smoking a cigarette with shaking hands and tear-welled eyes. He looked over at her and his head fell lower, smoke flowing with stuttering breath. 

Seeing Lucifer like that brought her to the closest thing to crying she could manage, since everyone they cared about had died. 

Maze walked over to him and pushed his shoulders back gently, creating room so she could crawl into his lap, straddle his thighs, and pull his head against her chest. He went willingly, painfully compliant, releasing a shuddering breath against her breastbone. 

To each other, they were as close to  _ home _ as they could get.

She watched him crush the smoldering tip of his cigarette, tossing it to the ground before wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight and close, afraid to let go. She felt the scratch of his beard on her chest, followed by soft lips and hot breath. He kissed his way up to her neck, her jaw, her chin, until his lips slotted against hers. 

It was intimate in a way only eternally damned creatures could be. 

\----

[Nostalghia - Plastic Heart](https://youtu.be/2LaiBsm4DVI)

It was soulless, purely physical. He was a taken being; no one could replace what he lost, but his soul died years ago and floated off to a place he could never go, never see, where he knew it belonged without him. He was an exoskeletal immortal shell, no capacity for anything other than bestial needs, baser instincts. He ate and he fucked, took enough drugs and drank enough concentrated booze to numb everything into mindless sensation. It was better that way. It still hurt, every waking moment, but it didn't hurt as much as it could. As he should let it. He knew eternal suffering more than his own cock, but being selfish granted him the ability to drown the pain in substances and wet holes.

“What do you need?” Maze whispered after pulling away from his mouth. Her hands carded through his dirty hair, the  _ what can I do _ was clear in her question, and he loved her for that. She was a demon, no loyalty to give wholly, but she always came back to him. Stayed with him. The sad truth was that he was all she had, and she was the same to him. 

They were alone, together. Creating a new hell for themselves on an Earth without any humans they could give a damn to care about. They had that once, and seeing them go had ruined the novelty of ever finding that again. 

He looked up into her eyes, ashamed of his own reflection he saw in them, so he turned his head, looking down. “Go get your new friend,” he muttered, no enthusiasm in his tone. “Get her ready for us.” It sounded like more of a chore than a fun interaction to him, but Maze nodded and slid off his lap, moving towards the door she had entered. He stared at the ground, unable to do anything but look down to where he belonged.

It was one of the many nights where he couldn't look up. The soul he knew to be looking down, hoped to not be, stoic yet accepting, probably happy he didn't sequester himself completely… a soul way too fucking good for him, felt like a heavy shame. A caring touch to the shoulder, an angel on his wing. Telling him it was okay.

Self-inflicted torture disguised as wishful thinking.

Some days he could look up, eyes stinging, chest aching, willing to bleed on the spot just for a phantasmagoric glimpse of her face in the clouds. Like a lightning strike; gone too quick, yet the afterburn left the details in his blinking vision, shades of pink and white disappearing like the fog in the sunrise. 

He couldn't look up. Not in that room, not in that state of living decay he found himself comfortable in. Not in a room full of booze and drugs, with a demon and human waiting to bed with him. Not after thrusting his pain and rage mercilessly into a hole more synthetic than living, bleeding flesh. 

He grabbed his last cigarette, lighting it up as soon as the door to the room opened again, Maze and the green-haired woman gliding through, mouths attached. He stood up, still naked, cock hanging low and heavy between his legs. He nodded his head towards the rumpled bed, and the other girl bit her lip in excitement, tugging Maze closer to the used mattress. Maze just looked at him, concern tugging her brows together, but he gently shook his head. She understood, he knew she did, but he wasn’t looking for a nonheart-to-nonheart. 

He was looking for another distraction.

Both women fell to the bed, thighs slotting between the others, rolling around in rapture. Lucifer stood at the foot of the bed, shins pressed against the bench there. He tugged on his dick idly, stroking it back to hardness as he watched a continuation from his show earlier. Clothes were leisurely tossed aside until both women were naked and writhing. Maze was doing her part, getting them both wet and desperate, a hand between the girl’s thighs, rubbing and teasing. 

Lucifer licked his lips. It was always easier when he had someone with Maze. The demon could do the parts that he couldn’t. The kissing, the eye-contact, all the gentle caresses that hurt too much for him to attempt. He reserved any ability in that for the times he used an Augmented, when he could put Chloe’s face on a body. 

He took a final drag on the smoke, putting the burning end out on his thigh before flicking it away. The room was littered with clothes and cigarette butts, the stale smells of smoke and sex finishing off the perfect arena for debauchery. He joined the women on the bed. Another round of barely passable distraction awaited. 

Earth was turning into Hell. An endless loop of suffering, of unfulfilling distractions for the suffering.

Endless torment, bathed in neon and artificial booze, on glitch-free repeat.

**Author's Note:**

> Ouch. I know.
> 
> I hope you guys found this a little different. I was talking with Luni about whether or not this should be tagged as an AU, and in the end, I decided I didn't consider it one. It's within the same "universe" as the show, just many years in the future, hence the Future Fic tag. I hope no one was disappointed or unprepared by that. 
> 
> **Okay, this is important to me. I found the group Nostalghia while looking for songs for this fic. Seriously, I'm blown away by them. Plastic Heart was the inspiration for the ending of this fic, I heard it and was just overwhelmed with the possibilities. They have such a unique sound and I can't recommend them enough! Do yourselves a favor and check them out. Sunshiny Milk is so raw and I cried real tears *gasp* the first time I listened to Kingdom of Disturb.**
> 
> Welp, I've kept you long enough. Come yell at me below and let me know what you thought.  
> Please, pretty please? I'm not above begging ;)
> 
> *disappears into a mass of black smoke*


End file.
